


Let Off

by idyll



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alcohol, M/M, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-31
Updated: 2007-08-31
Packaged: 2017-10-07 10:36:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idyll/pseuds/idyll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ronon realizes he can let go, and he does. Set in S2 post-Conversion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Off

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Meret](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Meret).



With the exception of a few missions here and there, Ronon is on stand-down while Sheppard recovers from the retrovirus. Teyla suggests that he go out to the Athosian settlement to assist with preparations for the coming hunting season, and for lack of anything else to do he agrees. He spends a long day helping them build smoke houses for meat curing. It's not hard work for him the way it is for some of the others, but it's movement and activity and Ronon tackles it gratefully.

Afterwards he is pleasantly limber from the exercise and he bathes in the fresh water inlet to the south of the settlement, taking his time, and when he makes his way back to the Athosians they're laying out a feast for those who came out to help.

They bring out _hua_ brew that's only been fermented a single time, as opposed to the customary three times. The brew is potent, definitely one of the strongest drinks Ronon's had, and it's served in small cups that are refilled only once every hour. Despite himself he's relaxed and at ease. He supposes most of that has to do with the brew, but he knows that a large part of it is that being here, on the mainland, is different than being on Atlantis, where everyone moves with purpose and urgency and intent, but never seem to really be doing anything as far as he can tell.

He takes the _hua_ at every hour, outlasting many of the other Athosians and Atlanteans in attendance who have turned their cups over to indicate that they don't wish to be served again.

The Athosians coax some of the Atlantean men into the dancing, pulling them up and leading their _hua_-loosened bodies through movements that take them from one end of the settlement to another, between and around fires and people and tired children who refuse to go to sleep even though they're swaying on their feet.

Two laughing women converge on Ronon and their smiles are simple and delighted, their eyes warm and appreciative, and Ronon lets himself be brought to his feet and danced through the maze of fires. The women twirl around him in dizzying spirals, and the world spins by him in a whorl of orange-yellow blurs, and somewhere in the middle of the camp he gets rid of his shirt.

The Atlanteans call _hua_ "firewater" and Ronon finds it fitting; he's burning from the inside out, softly and slowly, and the cool air against his too-hot skin feels like something luxurious and self-indulgent, and Ronon gets dizzier than all the drink and dancing combined have made him at the reminder that he can afford to be those things again.

He comes to a stop and the women continue on, free and easy despite all the reasons to not be, and Ronon looks around at the soldiers and scientists who came out here tonight, and they're moving without concern or worry, sprawled boneless on the ground, or leaning against each other.

One of the Athosian men is using some _hua_ and a small flaming twig to shoot fire from his mouth and the children perk up, eyes wide and awed. Two of them hurry past Ronon and he lets his momentum carry him in a small half-circle when he moves out of their way. He laughs and takes his _hua_ cup from his pocket, holding it out to the server approaching him, and then tosses it back in one quick gulp once it's filled.

When he lowers his head he sees Sheppard's second, Lorne, standing at the next fire over, flushed and bright-eyed. He's looking at Ronon, and there's no true sign of intent or interest on his face but Ronon knows soldiers, knows their mannerisms, and the Atlanteans aren't that much different than Ronon's people were when it comes to this.

Ronon looks away, to the side, and he inhales heavily as the most recent cup of _hua_ kicks in, washes over him in a wave of simmering heat that makes him start to sweat just a little.

All around the settlement people are drifting away to the cluster of tents on the west side of the settlement, where temporary tents have been set up alongside the more permanent Athosian lodgings. Traders, hunters, farmers, soldiers and scientists alike, many of them in pairs, the drink having relaxed them and made them more comfortable with their needs.

Ronon's never been one to fall prey to drink in that manner, no matter how strong the brew. He fights, he gets maudlin, he laughs loudly and inappropriately, but he's never found himself giving in like that; there was always a reason not to (Melena, before; the Wraith tracker, after).

Ronon's gaze slides back to Lorne, and firelight is kind to most people, but it's fierce to Lorne, sharpening his blunt features, shadowing the softness at his mouth, and reflecting wildly off his eyes. When Lorne looks over again Ronon holds his gaze for a long moment before deliberately turning and heading towards an empty tent.

Lorne comes in just as Ronon finishes lighting the torch in the center and he's holding two _hua_ cups. "Last round," he says and offers one to Ronon.

Ronon wraps his fingers around Lorne's wrist and tugs him towards the pallet on the floor, moving him carefully so that the brew doesn't spill. When Lorne's right next to it Ronon takes both cups of _hua_ from him and leans down, nosing aside Lorne's shirt, which is unbuttoned and hanging from his shoulders. He can smell the _hua_ coming through the other man's skin, the strong scent diluted and mixed with sweat, and he groans and then slides his tongue across Lorne's collar bone to taste it.

"Fuck," Lorne whispers, voice thick and heavy, and then he toes his boots off, shrugs his shirt the rest of the way off and lowers himself down on the pallet. Ronon sets the cups on the floor and they both start on the fastenings of their pants at the same time, shoving and pulling them off, though Ronon's get caught up on his own boots and he curses as he kicks them off and away.

Lorne's eyes are lit up just as wildly here in the torchlight as they were by the fire, and when Ronon kneels next to him on the bed, the angle changes enough that it seems almost like the flames have become Lorne's eyes. He reaches for one of the cups and Lorne frowns in confusion for as long as it takes Ronon to push him flat on his back and pour the _hua_ onto his chest and abdomen.

He laps up the small puddles that gather in the center of Lorne's chest, in the dip below his ribcage, and then he chases trails of _hua_ along Lorne's sides and to the base of his throat. It feels strange to have flesh under his mouth, under his hands, for pleasure, and he remembers the last time he had it. He has to clench his hands into fists and shake his head to clear it of the memories of the Wraith that arrived in his wake.

This is not that, it won't ever be that again, and Lorne tastes sharp and spicy, smells like fire and greenery, and Ronon's dick is hard in a way that's deeply intense but only mildly urgent.

There's no hurry, no rush, and when Lorne pushes Ronon onto his stomach and reaches for the other cup, Ronon folds his arms, uses them as a pillow for his cheek, and licks the biting taste of Lorne and _hua_ from his lips. The _hua_ is slightly warmer than Ronon's skin and his spine curves when Lorne pours it on the small of his back. It rushes in all directions and Lorne sucks up what's left in the hollow at the base of Ronon's spine before searching out the rest of it, his tongue hot and heavy on Ronon's back and sides and the curve of his ass.

Ronon parts his legs, makes a sound of hazy pleasure, and Lorne spreads him open and licks at him, into him, and his body bows and arches and curves with each stab and sweep and circle of Lorne's tongue, and he could come from this so easily, is tempted to do just that, but Lorne is behind him, unseen and out of reach, and it's too reminiscent of something hasty and cursory, even though it's nothing at all like that.

In one quick twist of a movement Ronon has Lorne flat on his back and is hovering over him. And then he's thrusting against Lorne, and his breath thins out but still gets caught in his throat, and Lorne pushes up against him, lazy and needful at the same time, and he presses down harder so that their dicks are crushed between them, but there's enough sweat on both their skins that the friction is blissful and perfect.

Lorne comes first, mouth falling open like something ripe and red, breath hot and scented, and Ronon's climax is near, but he doesn't reach for it, doesn't work towards it. Instead he waits for it, and it eases over him, spreads through him slowly and he falls into it helplessly, his body giving in, letting go, for the first time in longer than he can remember.

.End


End file.
